


Close

by likeamadonna



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7078840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever been in love with someone so deeply that he begins to invade your private thoughts? As you get on with your busy day, do you find yourself mentally conversing with your personal incarnation of this man, who acts like a tiny devil/angel sitting on your shoulder, advising you? Do you hear him laugh, and does he tell you his secrets? Because this is happening to Edge.</p><p>This was originally written in 2002, rescued by Choose2Live, and lightly edited by me in 2016. (Mainly stuff where Bono babbles about art history.) This is part one of three connected stories of mine. Heck, they're all connected. The original version of Close had twelve chapters, but I'm going to post them here in four big chunks. Thanks to everyone who has read this series over the past 14 years and told me it meant something to them. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thumbnail/Systems/Peacock/Mona Lisa

**Author's Note:**

> If you are one of those people who likes to figure out little puzzles and brain teasers, please skip the following equations, as they attempt to explain my odd format. Everyone else, pay attention, as this will become a multi-chapter, multi-story commitment for both of us.
> 
> Sentences in quotes = Bono or Edge is speaking  
> Sentences without quotes = Edge's thoughts  
> Sentences in parentheses = the voice of Bono inside Edge's mind. He calls Edge "Reg" a lot. It's his thing; I'm sorry.
> 
> Old school fanfic disclaimer: none of this happened, and I don't own either of them. I simply love them and wish them well.

1: Thumbnail.

  
"Come to New York with me, Edge."

(Do it. You know you want to, although you'd say yes to anything I would ask. Why do I even bother anymore? Guess what, Edge--we're going to New York. Look at me, building a perilous house of cards on your kitchen table. Third side, and fourth side, and roof...concentrating. You love it when I concentrate. Not even breathing. Steady, steady hands.)

Stop it. And you're wrong about me always saying yes.

"My presence is somehow required at a gallery opening for Anton? You're his muse, not me."

(Aww Reg--that's true. You know you never tire of looking at his photos of me. Just two nights ago, you were alone in your bed with a certain proof sheet...)

"Please? As a personal favor to me? It could be amusing, and we have only a few weeks left before our lives will be hijacked by the tour. Come on, Edge. I want to take my new persona out for a spin in public. And you could give me an objective opinion, tell me what works."

(Objective? You? That's good. And it will all work. Where was I...yes. Color photographs of me, Reg, twenty-four thumbnails on a glossy sheet. He had circled seven. You agreed with the seven, but what about the one of me tearing the orchid apart with my teeth, hair falling into my eyes, fingernails abominable as usual? Why didn't he choose to print that one? You studied that tiny picture for quite some time. When the telephone rang you gasped, and it took your eyes several seconds to refocus. Later, back in bed, you tried in vain to formulate a plan: how does a man discreetly request an enlargement of a certain erotic photograph of his best friend?)

I'm not listening to you.

"Bono, this is a terrible time to leave, whatever the reason. We need to get organized; we need every last minute. I don't think any of us is truly prepared for how monumentally demanding this tour is going to be."

"All the more reason for us to do this. I want to have some fun with you before school starts again."

(Now what could I possibly mean by that? Why don't you watch me elaborate: a nice long stretch in the chair, neck back, my eyes watching the ten fingers above my head. My right hand touches my left the way it would caress a Brancusi sculpture.)

He did _Bird in Space_.

(Hey, you remembered--good for you, Reg! Arms slowly descending behind my head, legs extended, and I am a perfect diagonal, a forty-five degree angle, a hypotenuse. I am Brancusi's _Bono in Chair_. And did you notice? I mentioned a geometrical term just for you. Exhaling...and my house of cards comes tumbling down.)

"Damn, I was almost ready for a second level there."

Anton freely admits it: "He has so many different faces and therefore is my favorite." Who wouldn't want to document that face on any available visual medium? You've been increasingly entranced by mirrors or anything with a lens these days. Who can blame you? You've never looked this...god, this beautiful, and it's a beauty that comes from the joy of creation, the ecstasy of reinvention. As I analyzed that tiny thumbnail, I actually felt jealous of the man behind the camera. Somehow he was able to coax that passion out of your body. Your face right now--

(I am the charming boy about to get his way.)

"How many days are we talking about, Bono?"

(Reg, you are such a pushover. Ahh, this hair. If I had a dollar for every time I've pushed it out of my face, onstage or otherwise, I'd be a wealthier man than I already am. And now it's black. Jet black...)

Stop doing that, B. There will be no more winking tonight, either.

"We would leave tomorrow afternoon, attend the opening that evening, spend the night, and come back the next day. In and out. No big deal, Edge. They won't even miss us. And you can 'get organized' on the plane...make lists, design systems, whatever it is one does to get organized."

(See your sugar bowl, Reg? That's right, I'm licking my finger, dipping it into the sugar, and sucking it off. Let's do that one more time.)

"Where are we staying, how are we getting around..."

"That's already been arranged."

You're so nonchalant, so blasé. It's as if asking me was a mere formality. You're violating my sugar bowl in the midst of an avalanche of cards I will undoubtedly have to pick up later. There's that slow grin I've been seeing so much of these days, your current weapon of choice. All those bastard lessons are certainly paying off.

(Oh I'm a bastard, all right. A magnificent bastard.)

"You just assumed I'd agree to do this."

(Yes baby.)

"You always say yes to me, Edge."

 

  
2: Systems.

  
"Oh, you think so?"

"Prove me wrong, Edge. I should probably go home and tell Ali."

"She might enjoy knowing your plans."

"Yes, yes. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, B."

(Have a seat, Reg.)

Your chair is still warm. I'd imagine it would stay that way for hours. You move through life like a cat, marking furniture, random objects, the natural world, and people with your presence, leaving behind vestigial evidence, accumulating human hearts and other entities, all of them happy to burn in the name of Bono.

(Pick a card, any card.)

All right, then. Ace of hearts.

(I certainly am. And go ahead; it's your sugar bowl, Reg.)

Eating sugar right out of the bowl with your bare hands--what kind of person does that?

(People who believe receiving pleasure is a top priority do that...and it tastes better this way, doesn't it? The sweetness of the sugar mingles with the slightly salty taste of the finger in a way only a true sensualist could appreciate. Incidentally, did you notice the shirt I was wearing tonight, Reg?)

Sky blue. I suppose that was a subliminal technique of yours designed to convince me to go. January in Ireland is so rainy, so windy, so green, and so dark, with barely seven hours of daylight. New York will be an icy, glittering diamond in comparison. And even though I was just there, you know I love to see the sky above the clouds. By the way, your color choices are becoming awfully predictable. You wear green when we're in the desert, and you wear red when it's cold outside.

(I never noticed. That's pretty shifty of me, tempting you with colors.)

You pull off a lot of covert operations without realizing what you're doing, B. I should turn off the television.

(That's been on all day, you know.)

I suppose it's a sure sign of loneliness. I keep it on to have other human beings in the house, to provide a low-level din to counteract the silence of this place. Zippers--the sound of travel--if I pack now that will be one less thing to contemplate...

(That means more quality time for the two of us tonight, right? More quality time with the proof sheet as well. You can't wait to have me all to yourself tomorrow, can you?)

Let's not read too much into tomorrow's excursion. Larry, Adam, and I have been rehearsing together for days, creating a musical runway for you to swagger down. Your presence has not been necessary, and you're feeling left out lately. You hate it when it's three versus one, so this side trip is simply your way of reclaiming me and making things even again.

(Yeah, sure. That too. I wonder what photos Anton will show of me...of us, I mean?)

He'll probably show the _Joshua Tree_ photographs since they sort of put him on the map, although we look like a collective of serial killers. Perhaps we'll see some of those newer, color-saturated pictures of you. I sincerely hope not to see myself in those bedazzled pants.

(You really are the last word in packing excellence. Everything in its proper place.)

If you can develop a packing routine, you don't have to think about it too much.

(Do you think about me too much, Reg?)

I think about other things.

(Do they become little voices as well?)

I think about other things. This morning I was reminded of a teacher I had when I was nine years old.

(Was she beautiful?)

No. But I've always felt bad about not knowing where she is now. She encouraged me to look behind the curtain. One day she taught us about what lies beneath the earth's surface, and I remember drawing triangular wedges with labels: crust, mantle, core. Learning this was such a revelation to me. I was fascinated by the earth's core, part liquid, part solid metal. How did scientists know what was in there? How did they know that the liquid part affected the earth's magnetic field? And how did that work?

(Does this story become interesting at any point, Reg?)

Not to you, because it is not about you, and that is my argument. I'm not always thinking about you. I was thinking about this teacher who gave me a set of the school's outdated encyclopedias. I told her I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. My favorite volume had a series of color transparencies of the human body, showing the circulatory system, the digestive system, the respiratory system, and so on. Once layered, they showed a whole human being with all of these different colored organs. Another transparency showed an upside-down baby inside its mother. I marveled that all of these systems operated in total darkness.

Today I was wondering how the new songs would sound, or rather, feel in concert. At a loud volume certain sounds will seem to penetrate the body, and you can sense a vibration inside...that's what made me recall my teacher and the encyclopedia with the transparencies. How will my systems react, how will your voice feel inside of me when you sing, "love, love, love," or "take me higher"?

(It will pierce your poor heart. And see? Your thoughts always come back to me, Reg. Our little secret. Now get some rest; you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow...again with the proof sheet?)

There are two sparkles in your left eye.

(Indeed. You've been sleeping on your stomach lately--don't think I haven't noticed. Does it help to simulate the presence of another body in your bed, lying beneath you? The way you embrace that pillow--is that somebody's chest?)

You have a wife...

(I don't have a husband...)

I shouldn't be entertaining these thoughts in the first place.

(Ahh, go to sleep Reg, my partner, my muse. We transcend conventional morality. The heart wants what the heart wants. Let it be...let it be my pale skin, blue eyes with two sparkles, the one hundred twenty degree angle of my jaw...the hothouse flower that was nursed for months by a conscientious botanist who loved it like a child...)

 

 

3: Peacock.

 

There is a special kind of light that can only be seen during the half hour before sunrise. No colors exist in this bedroom now, not yet. I am lying in bed, living in the set of a black and white movie. My arm is gray, this quilt is gray, each shape in that painting is gray, and every spine of every book is gray. Gradually, as the sun approaches the horizon, the colors make themselves known. The reds and oranges emerge first, followed by yellow and blue. Every single day, a person has the chance to become Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz_ and to watch the sepia world convert to Technicolor in the space of thirty minutes. But hardly anyone has that kind of patience.

(Are you referring to me, Reg? Would you like to watch my eyes change from gray to blue some morning?)

Even if such a scenario were remotely possible, there is no way your eyes would open before dawn.

(Unless you kept them awake all night.)

Must you begin so early, B? All I want to do is watch my colors materialize and take a shower. Perhaps you could hit your snooze button and give me a bit of peace?

(If you insist, you grouch. It is my sincere wish that you thoroughly savor your shower experience, and if you discover you miss me, promise me you won't look any further than your own right hand, darling. Otherwise, wake me once you've had your coffee.)

............................................................................................................

(Watch more TV, clean Reg, wearing black. What's on? I just had the most wonderful dream about that little smile that was on your lips before you opened your eyes this morning... That's right; I saw it.)

We're watching a series on peafowl.

(Peafowl? You mean peacocks?)

Also peahens. And...peachicks. Collectively they are known as peafowl.

(I may perish from the cuteness of it all.)

If you would watch this you'd realize you have much in common with these birds. They even have black masks over their eyes, quite like your new sunglasses.

(That gentleman--gentlecock?--is quite ostentatious and flashy. I'll take that as the compliment it unquestionably is, but really, who watches educational documentaries this early in the day?)

Excuse me for not providing you with more glamorous programming, B.

(Make some coffee for us now, Reg.)

A good idea.

(Ahh, there's that drawing young Hollie made with me last weekend. You hung it on the refrigerator, I see. Truly, this is the definitive illustration of Daddy and Bono sharing a microphone.)

You showed my daughter how to draw a guitar.

(All you have to do is make two circles, one large and one small, connect them with curves, and add a neck. She's such a bright girl...your children love you so, Reg. I can't imagine what it's like to...)

I know.

(I'm sorry...)

I know. She couldn't stop staring at you. Children intuitively recognize things that are exceptional and they pay attention. You are a marvelous teacher, one who possesses a sense of play, a sense of wonder. You refuse to talk down to children, and they are happy to rise to the occasion of being treated as the equals of a creature as splendid as you. It was a pleasure to watch the two of you giggling and chattering away, trading crayons.

(She made my head a bit too large for my body.)

It looks just about right to me.

(Adorable girl. And isn't it amusing how she filled the background with television screens that say "Daddy" and "Bono"? She considered making your face gaze out at the audience, but I told her we sound better and more like a team when we look at each other as we sing. I wish our eyes would meet more often when we sing together...why don't they?)

You know why.

(I want you to tell me again.)

B, some of us have to concentrate and actually play an instrument during the entire performance. And your messianic presence is far too intense for mere mortals such as myself.

(So droll.)

The scent I would recognize anywhere reaches me. Our mouths are always a bit too close, and I can feel your breath on my face, your eyes a Pandora's box. Your free hand touches my shoulder, the back of my neck, and the next time this happens you'll be wearing leather...jet black leather.

(Go on.)

When the music overtakes you, your face changes. Sometimes I hardly recognize you as thousands of eyes focus on you and hold you, each eye generating a ray of energy aimed at your heart. You feed off this intensity and return it to them over and over, until this exchange becomes a geometric progression, all this love multiplied and volleyed back and forth. And that's when you decide to walk over to me, an electromagnetic field surrounding your body. I know that if I so much as look at you I will be swept into that vortex and swallowed whole. I know why they scream, B.

(I love that story. They scream for you as well, you know. And would it really be so bad if I swallowed you whole, Reg?)

I'm not going to dignify that with a response.

(There's that little smile again.)

 

 

4: Mona Lisa.

 

(I'm at your door, Reg, and wearing purple, I see. How romantic of me!)

"Hi Bono."

"All set to go? I'll take your luggage."

"Thanks for being on time."

"Am I? Imagine that... Thank you for saying yes to me Edge, and I'm sorry for springing this on you at the last minute. Was I acting unbearable yesterday?"

"Ever so slightly."

"You are a saint; do you know that? I was fully prepared to go to New York by myself, but yesterday...I realized how much I've missed you. Oh; take us to the airport, please."

"You've missed me? We've been in each other's way on an almost daily basis."

"Yes, of course, but you have been so preoccupied with rehearsal."

"You're right about that."

"This will be a beneficial holiday for both of us."

"You don't need to convince me again. I've been looking forward to it...as much as a person can, given eight hours' notice."

"This kind of behavior will never happen again. I promise."

(Heavens, I'm lovable when I'm sheepish.)

"Off topic, Bono: what do you know about the Mona Lisa?"

(What the hell?)

You keep mentioning little smiles.

"The Mona Lisa? Don't get me started. A wealthy patron commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to paint a portrait of his mistress. The painting took years to complete and the benefactor most likely never received it...

(Oh how I do go on. Did you enjoy that hand gesture, the way I outlined my cheekbone with my index finger?)

"...overzealous cleanings have stripped the painting of most of its warm layers, so now she has an almost seasick skin tone..."

(Do you envy the chain I'm wearing, Reg? Wouldn't it be wonderful to drape yourself around my neck and stay there all day, monitoring my pulse, your metallic body warming to match the exact temperature of the man who wears you?)

"...an uneven horizon line in the background creates the illusion of movement in her lips. Why do you ask, Edge?"

"You have a new way of smiling these days, Bono. You remind me of the Mona Lisa."

"Excellent. I love it, Edge. Ali says I look like a garden-variety sex offender. Either way, everybody wins; that's what I say. She and Jordan and Eve are indeed looking forward to the coming hours of peace my absence will afford them...poor darlings. _'She packed my bags last night, pre-flight / zero hour nine a.m. / and I'm gonna be hi-ii-igh as a kite by then...'''_

(I'm singing old Elton John, and you know what that means.)

No. What does it mean?

(All right. Probably nothing. But it's not a bad sign.)

" _'And I think it's gonna be a long, long time / till touchdown brings me 'round again to find / I'm not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no / I'm a rocket maaannn.'_ "

(Not a bad sign.)

Yet another misty, damp day. Even the clouds look green, reflecting the landscape. It will be refreshing to go somewhere with clear skies and unlimited visibility. Here the mist gathers in small beads on the car windows, and as we move through traffic the droplets accumulate and begin to wiggle and slide toward the back seat, dragging comet-like tails...

(Sperm is what they look like, Reg.)

Yes. Sperm. You freak.

(All of them are headed in the direction of my face, which is watching that truck passing us.)

I like the simmering, tea-kettle sound it makes...

(My breath is clouding the window, depositing discarded carbon dioxide I don't want anymore...)

"You know what, Edge? As a shape, the capital letter R has it all."

"Excuse me?"

"The letter R, on that truck? Look..."

(I'm drawing an R on the foggy glass with my finger; how sweet.)

"It's got a straight line, a curve, and a diagonal. No other letter can claim that. Not E, as you can see, and not G. R is the best letter in the alphabet, Reg. Ahh, now there's the smile I've been wanting to see."

"The way your mind works is God's private mystery, Bono."

"Thank you; I know."

(Irish skin...)

I've read that it is among the best skin in the world in terms of general health and beauty, due to this region's humidity and lack of sunlight.

(It makes you want to touch that cheek, that temple, that vein.)

So fragile, so easily burnt.

(Thirty-one years old...)

You've changed a great deal in four years. Your body was once composed of nothing but curved lines and soft contours, almost womanly, but now your bone structure and musculature are much more evident.

(I really am a man now, at the height of my erotic power, I might add. I know how to be sexual, how to play with it, how to use it for good or evil, don't I?)

It's going to be interesting to see what happens to your face as you age.

(Aging? Perish the thought.)

I'll always think you're beautiful, B. There you are, tranquilly watching the world go by. I've often thought that when two people can be quiet and neither one feels the need to fill that gap with words, they have found true friendship. We have that. Look at all those cars. I see a businessman wearing a vacant expression, a young blonde applying lipstick, and a woman rummaging in her purse, each one headed for work. Meanwhile, you and I are embarking upon a whimsical trip to New York to view photographs of ourselves. What an unimaginable lifestyle we lead.

"Look at those cars, Edge, all containing people with jobs."

"I was thinking the same thing."

(Watch out: my head is tipping back, my back is arching, my fingers are tracing patterns on the ceiling...my my, what a glorious yawn. And now there's no use fighting it, Reg. You must yawn as well. It's only a matter of time.)

You're right, you bastard.

"Ha--I knew I could make you do it! The other day I was driving, sitting at a light, and yawning. Across the intersection, I could see that a woman in her car was watching me, and after a few moments she yawned. I considered it a personal victory and a testament to my authority and influence."

"Please accept my heartfelt praise."

"Thank y--oh no, look, an accident up ahead..."

(I'm grabbing your hand.)

"...that must be why we're moving so slowly. How terrible, she's bleeding."

(Tightly.)

"One false move, Edge... If I had arrived five minutes earlier at your place, it could have been us."

"That kind of thinking will drive you crazy, you know."

"I'm only saying that you, that we, should always be very careful. Please be careful, Edge, I mean it."

"Of course."

(Should my thumb be traveling over your knuckles like that, pausing briefly over each one? It's just a question.)

How can you not know what you are doing to me?

"If something happened to you..."

"I'll be careful, Bono. I'll be careful for you."

I'll do anything for you. Anything at all.

(I'm sorry, Reg; hand holding time is over. But that was an unmistakable pass, you know.)

Hardly. It was completely innocent. If that was a pass we will be kissing by the time we're eighty.

(It's been said you possess the patience of Job, my dear.)

You flirt with anything that walks. Nothing will transpire between us.

(You think so? Maybe your beloved singer hears a little voice of his own, one of my colleagues, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Who's to say he doesn't?)

Settle down, you. The clouds are beginning to dissipate. In the distance, shafts of sunlight pour down through the spaces between them. This sight has been used as a visual cliché employed by any Biblical movie ever made. Still, there's something appealing about being inside one of those rays, selected as one of the chosen few. As you are now; your body is bathed in a golden radiance, your hair glistens like wet black silk...

"Snap out of it, Edge."

"Sorry?"

"You're obsessing about the tour again. Come on, it's going to be fantastic. Stop worrying, okay? And if you catch me in a pensive mood, I want you to tell me to snap out of it too. Deal?"

"Sure, B."

"And one more thing about the Mona Lisa. She doesn't have any eyebrows. They were stripped during one of those cleaning sessions. Can you imagine how terrible that person must have felt, watching her eyebrows disappear?"

"Inconceivable."

(You're doing it again, Reg.)

Doing what?

(That tongue-folding thing. You know, where your mouth is closed, but the tip of your tongue points back toward your throat and slides over the rest of its surface, simulating the way it feels to be kissed, the way it feels to have another tongue exploring your own. Mimicking the way my tongue would feel, gliding over yours, probing every inch of your mouth, slowly, slowly...)

"We're on the cusp of what could be three solid years of touring."

"I'm having trouble grasping that one as well. Christ, look at those satellite dishes, Bono. There must be a dozen of them pointed out into space."

"Satellites. We can go anywhere..."


	2. Clarice/Adventure/Explorer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this cluster of chapters, an overly-dazzling* Bono takes his besotted hostage to an art show.
> 
> * One time somebody told me my B was maybe a bit too dazzling, and I admit it: he is! I was heavily influenced by Wes Anderson when I wrote my early fics, and I envisioned this story taking place in one of his stilted, color-saturated, beautiful worlds. I was also under the spell of David Foster Wallace, who is responsible for B and E's fondness for gigantic vocabulary words.
> 
> PS I mention Innocence and Experience here. What a fabulous coincidence!

5: Clarice.

 

Napping again?

(Are we on the plane to New York yet?)

Yes.

"Edge, you sit by the window. I know how you love to watch the clouds."

"I know how you love to watch the flight attendants."

"It all works out in the end, see?"

............................................................................................................

The rhythm of travel--a series of rapid movements interrupted by periods of idleness--I'll be able to do this in my sleep soon. Not that any actual thinking is ever required of us. We are herded and corralled from one VIP holding pen to the next like a quartet of show ponies.

(At least we get the best seats.)

One look at these remarkable pieces of machinery makes a person wonder how any of this is even possible. Leaden battleships swollen with tiny bodies and their precious accouterments: who would have the audacity to presume these hulking beasts could be persuaded to defy gravity and traverse the planet?

(It appears that this battleship is happy to oblige. We're about to take off...now. This sensation never gets old, does it? The velocity coaxes us deep into our seats with a pressure not unlike the weight of another human body, an invisible lover...)

Leave it to you to turn this into something sexual.

(Oh, but it is, Reg. And guess who's about to whisper into your ear...)

"The sun won't melt our wings tonight, Edge."

(Flirt back. Sometime this century. I dare you.)

"Here's a question for you, Mr. Staring Out the Window In Deep Thought, Ignoring Me. What if birds and flying insects never existed? Do you think humanity would be creative enough to conceive of the airplane? And even if the answer is yes, do you think you and I would be on a plane today, or would that invention come years, centuries after we were gone? And what would our band be called if not U2, which is the name of a spy plane?"

"Those are all typically brilliant questions. My answers are: we'd be overrun by mice and worms in a world with no honey; yes; centuries after we were gone; The Paul Hewson Experience."

"Thanks for clearing that up, Edge. I'll let you get back to your quiet musings."

(What a beautiful smile I have.)

London, Heathrow: I'm always astonished by the number of people who can be found there at any given moment, people in transition, some leaving home, some returning. It's interesting to imagine their stories by reading the expressions on their faces. Who is about to see new things; who is back from an adventure? All these lives, experiencing the emotions unique to travel, are shuffling through a colossal, sterile, sorting machine. They are graded like eggs, organized like currency. But you and I are two Pieces of Eight, or better, two preposterous commemorative coins, placed in an attractive display case, admired but never actually used.

(More whispering is coming your way.)

"Edge, that woman in front of us was staring at you earlier."

(I've been eating some kind of cinnamon candy.)

"Do you think she knows who we are?"

"I don't think that was the case. She was simply admiring you. You're a handsome man, Edge; you might as well face it. She barely noticed me."

(The candy makes my breath seem warmer as it trickles down your neck.)

"Imagine that."

A literary buffet is spread upon your lap, along with a pen for making notes in the margins. Does a person really require three books during a twenty-four hour period? Thomas Wolfe, a volume on comparative religion, and... _The Story of O_?

"Oh, did you see this? It's a great prop, perfect for when one dines alone at outdoor restaurants or coffee houses. Seriously!..."

(Heh.)

"...allow me to demonstrate: you hold the book up so the title is visible and pretend to read it--or actually read it, some parts are quite...rousing. Then you locate your target, and once eye contact is made, you return to the book for no more than ten seconds, at which point you look at her, smile devilishly, and leave. The possibilities are endless. Didn't you bring anything to read?"

"Just a notebook. You know, for all my lists, my systems, whatever it is I do to get organized."

"Are you sure I can't interest you in _The Story of O_? Even as a prop?"

"Maybe later, B."

"I'll hold you to that."

............................................................................................................

(Enjoying my book, Reg?)

You said I could borrow it, and anyway, you're fast asleep. You are blessed with the ability to sleep during any travel situation. I wish I could shut down my mind that easily.

(You have two minds to shut down, Reg.)

I keep forgetting. The clouds are gorgeous this afternoon, a rococo meringue on some fanciful blue dessert. As a boy I marveled at the clouds from the ground. They seemed so unknowable and...Biblical. Heaven was up there. As stunning as they are from the sky, I have to admit that upon seeing them for the first time I was a little disappointed, just a bit.

(That's because the mystery was lost. Sometimes it's better to let some things remain a fantasy.)

Exactly.

(Other times the reality is better than the mystery, far better than anything you could ever imagine.)

Exactly.

(That's my foot nestled beside yours, you know.)

I don't want to move it. I don't want to wake you up.

(Yeah, that's why. Allow me to lick my lips for you.)

Your uncapped pen is creating a small black stain on your sleeve.

(Put it someplace safe; thanks Reg. Damn. Everybody likes me in that shirt.)

Your hair is obscuring your left eye.

(By all means, push it back. Can you do it without waking me?)

So soft...

"Well hello, Clarice..."

"Not this again, B."

"People will say we're in love."

"Why this obsession with _The Silence of the Lambs_? It's the worst."

"You're very frank, Clarice. I think it would be quite something to know you in private life."

"Here's your book."

"How do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet?"

"No."

"No. Precisely. We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes move over the things you want?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Clarice."

"Can we be done now?"

............................................................................................................

"Wake up, Bono. Food is here."

"Oh. Chinese? Well. This should be fantastic."

"Loaded with onions, I see."

"Since when is that a concern? And anyway, if we both eat the same thing, the breath problem will cease to be an issue."

"Whatever you say, B."

"Hey...what kind of operation are they trying to...excuse me? Hello. I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Leelah. Is there a problem, sir?"

"I'm afraid so, Leelah. A big one. My friend's fortune cookie...as you can see it's crushed beyond all recognition."

"Ma'am, this is not a problem."

"Leelah. I think you know what we need you to do."

"Absolutely, sir. I will be right back with a virginal fortune cookie."

"Thank you so much. How do you like that, Edge?"

"My hero..."

"Here you are, gentlemen."

"Extraordinary service, thank you."

"You're welcome. I love your music, incidentally. Let me know if you need anything else."

"Oh, we will."

(Dear Diary, today Bono threw his weight around so I could have a perfect fortune cookie!! I am SO IN LOVE!!)

"This meal, whatever it may be, is not bad."

"Fortune cookie time, Edge. Me first. 'Truly great madness can not be achieved without significant intelligence'...in bed. I agree. Your turn."

" 'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars'...in bed."

"That's Oscar Wilde, is it not? Wait a minute...why didn't you tell me  _Thelma and Louise_ was on? I've always wanted to be a feminist outlaw. Which one do you want to be, Reg?"

"If I had to choose, I'd say I'm Susan Sarandon and you're Geena Davis."

"So you are saying you'd shoot any guy who would try to take advantage of me, correct?"

"And you would just as easily pick up some random cowboy hitchhiker without asking me."

"Well, just look at him. Who is that?"

"No idea."

"My goodness... Say, Edge, could you help me decipher something? I wrote a couple of lines last night, and now I can't figure out what they say. OK, here it is. Now, what did I write?"

"It looks like the first word is...slay? Wait, that's a T. Stay. And the. Light?"

"No. That's got to be Night."

"Something...can't make it out, Bono...then Me."

"Be."

"Would Be."

"E..."

"Enough. There it is. Stay and the night would be enough, Edge."

 

6: Adventure.

"Awfully close in here, Edge."

(Or is it us?)

"This air has been re-circulating for what...five hours now? And it's so dry; I feel like my lungs are shriveling, B."

"They are slowly turning us into jerky."

"Perhaps the flight attendants have been asked to mummify a passenger's body, back there in that little place they always go."

"Disturbing imagery, indeed."

No. Don't do that. Don't roll up your sleeves.

(Just try and stop me, Reg.)

"An ink stain? When did that happen?"

Your arms. There is something alluring about seeing a person's arms exposed, especially during the winter when they are normally covered. Muscular contours are suddenly on display, accentuated by configurations of soft dark hair that evoke visions of other hair, still hidden. Dusky, vulnerable veins protrude, delicate pathways connecting your hands to your heart. The skin of your inner arm must be as soft as a baby's, from the strange elbow crease to the wrist, lined with even more veins, arteries, and tendons, the miraculous circuitry that allows you to scrawl illegible lyrics onto napkins. If I were to run my fingers across your inner wrist I would be able to feel at least six conduits, six guitar strings.

(Guess what? I've been watching you stare at my arms. Look up, Reg dear.)

Oh.

(Why are you wasting your time on my arms when you could be exploring my eyes?)

They are otherworldly...

(How many sparkles do you see now?)

Four.

(Here it comes...)

Spreading like gossip from the center of your closed lips, the corners establishing footholds between two wry creases... there is that demonic smile of yours.

"Hmm, I didn't need to use my book as a prop with you, did I, Edge? Excuse me for a moment, I have to use...oh, hello again, Leelah!"

"Would either of you gentlemen like more fortune cookies?"

"No. What you gave us earlier met our requirements. However, a new crisis has reared its ugly head, I'm afraid. Leelah, my darling, we are thirsty. I think you know what I mean."

"I understand completely."

"Something special? Surprise us."

"It would be my pleasure."

"Have a piece of my candy."

"Okay. Thank you."

What is it about you that causes men, women, and children to move heaven and earth just to please you?

(It must be my complete sense of entitlement paired with my boyish insouciance and Irish charm. And let's not forget about my eyes. I've been required by the U.S. government to apply for a non-residential License to Carry, as my eyes are generally regarded as lethal weapons in most states.)

..........................................................................................................................

"Looks like the feds have us cornered, Louise."

"It was fun while it lasted, Thelma."

"Ahh, here she comes! What do you have in that picnic basket, Little Red Riding Hood?"

"My, what big teeth you have, Grandmother. We've just received this recommendation from our cuisine consultant. We gave samples on our last flight, but you can have the bottle. Are you familiar with Gewürztraminer?"

"Edge?"

"Spicy...grape?"

"That's very good! It's French, made by Hugel, last year's vintage..."

"All right, I have heard of it. Edge, I've read about this... 'a fun, involving, racy little wine' or words to that effect."

"I hope you'll like it."

"Thank you, Leelah. You're too kind."

"Yes, and true class act. Oh look, she has dimples, too!"

"Cheers, Edge...Big Bad Wolf."

"This bottle reminds me of you, Reg. Thin, elongated, with a label stating only the facts. Allow me. Ooh, isn't it lovely and golden?"

"It smells like...gingerbread."

"Apple pie. American women. To American women!"

"Cheers, B... Mmm, it is spicy."

"Sexy is what it is, Reg. Wow. Oh, I hate this part, where they drive off the cliff, poor girls."

"I don't know. I'd rather die than be in prison. They really had no other choice."

"I beg to differ; prison could be okay. You and I in prison...we could be cellmates!"

"I don't think they let you choose, B."

"They do if you're famous. It could be like in _Goodfellas_. They'd give us a big room and I'd do all the cooking."

"You're watching entirely too many films these days."

"You could take care of all the legal research for us, and I'd also put you on tunnel duty. I would be in charge of making deals; we'd be out of there in no time. Plus there would be plenty of opportunities for us to write songs, bluesy prison songs."

"Aren't you worried that some of the other prisoners would find you...excessively charming?"

"That won't be a problem, Reg. We would immediately establish ourselves as a couple in order to avoid unwanted sexual attention. It's perfect. It almost makes me want to go on a crime spree with you, just to prove how great prison would be."

(In bed with you every night...)

"You present the picture of a caged utopia, Bono, but wouldn't you miss the screaming adoration of all your fans?"

"You could pick up the slack in that arena."

"What about the thrill of performing? Surely you'd long for that."

"Ehm, they have talent shows in prisons sometimes, don't they?"

"Okay. You've convinced me. Let's do something bad and go to prison. Seriously though, if you think about it, what we're about to stage is...like being in prison. Soon we won't be able to travel without a police escort. We'll be trapped in hotel rooms. All our decisions will be made for us, and we'll be slaves to a relentless schedule; our attendance will be required at all times..."

"I feel so sorry for us, Edge."

"You know what I mean."

"Of course I do. But. It will be worth it. Tom Waits once asked this question: 'What do men love more than sex?'"

"I don't know. What do we love more than sex, Bono?"

(I can't wait for this.)

"Adventure. Have some more, Edge."

............................................................................................................

We're chasing the sunset, and the sunset is winning. The clouds range from yellow to rose, and a subtle shade of spring green rings the horizon. The cabin is filled with a peculiar glow, highlighting the bluish undertones of your skin and the stubble on your face. Is that a new freckle?

"You were touching my hair earlier, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to tell me why?"

"No."

"...Good answer. Go to sleep."

(Yes, close your poor eyes. I adore you; you know that. And you are enjoying every second of this flight. Things are being said, lines are being blurred, and I'm proud of you, Reg: you are beginning to flirt with me. You're meeting my eyes and holding them. While both of us feel an undercurrent of lust, neither one of us overtly acknowledges it, so it continues to escalate. That's what makes it so delectable...)

But...

(It's not wrong if it's only flirting.)

But what if...

(It's not wrong if it ventures beyond flirting.)

............................................................................................................

I can never sleep for long. I might as well work on some plans for rehearsal while you nap... Wait. What is this?

(It looks like someone has been drawing in your notebook.)

It's a drawing of me, asleep. Quite accomplished, in fact.

(I've written something beside it: "Tell me why, Edge." I'm ninety percent sure this is what it says.)

"Excuse me; may I take this bottle from you?"

"Thanks, Leelah."

"Oh my. Did he draw this on the label for me?"

"He's pretty good, isn't he?"

............................................................................................................

The outlying areas of New York are beginning to emerge: glowing amber confetti has been sprinkled liberally over the blue snowdrifts. So perfectly organized, so placid...it would seem that nothing bad could happen inside those homes. And now, a full moon shimmers over the Hudson River, and my world is in black and white again. This will be my last moment of serenity before the frenetic pace of New York City takes over. Looking at the moon...my sister the moon.

Manhattan: why did so many people choose to congregate in such an arbitrary location? What makes this spiky, bristling jewel box the most important city in the world? It passes beneath us as if on a conveyor belt, mighty and fearless.

"Look, Bono."

............................................................................................................

On the ground, through the hive of LaGuardia, and into the car...the pilot was not kidding when he said it was going to be cold tonight. It's five degrees below zero, and even a car this high-tech is brittle and irritable as we work our way through the labyrinth that will lead us to Manhattan. Every pothole is jarring and interrupts any train of thought; every pothole screams the name 'Ali'.

(She understands how I feel about you.)

You know this for a fact?

(No.)

"Hey Edge, what if my relatives would have decided to immigrate to America years ago? What if we never met? Do you think we would still be musicians?"

"I think we'd each be in some kind of band."

"I agree. And they would be enemy bands! Imagine U2 without me--Adam, Larry, and you-you could be a power trio like The Police or Nirvana. Meanwhile, I would sing with an all-girl punk band, and we would be so much cooler than you guys."

"I could see you on Broadway, actually."

"No--never! I would have a Bronx accent. I would be the new Lou Reed."

"You'd be on Broadway, singing and dancing your little heart out. I can see it now."

"Excuse me, driver? Could you pull over, just for a minute?"

"No problem."

"What are you doing?"

"You'll see. One side, Edge."

You're walking over to those shrubs. You're making a small snowball. You're bringing it into the car.

"Want some?"

You're eating the snow.

"Come on, it's good."

"This is New York snow, B."

"So?"

(Open your mouth, Reg. That's a good boy. Let my fingers put snowflakes on your tongue. That's right. Now take back what you said about Broadway.)

"Your band would be so much cooler than ours, B."

"Thanks for finally owning up to that, Edge. We're going straight to the show, by the way. It's a mere three blocks from the Plaza."

"I'm impressed."

"You should be."

Your beauty seems to thrive in shadows; they invade your body and exaggerate the contrasts of your coloring. The darks become black, and the lights become incandescent, luminous. You have a moontan, suggesting entire days spent in a bed where little sleep is accomplished. The dark circles under your eyes...yes, you have better things to do than sleep. And here you are with me, attempting to warm your hands by curling them up inside the sleeves of your coat.

"Feel that."

Your hand caresses my jaw and neck, and it feels so cold I shudder.

"No gloves?"

"No."

"I brought an extra pair...here. No hat either?"

"No."

"I have two."

"You're my best friend, Edge."

"So are you, B."

"Hey, we're here! Thanks a lot. We'll walk back to the hotel. We are just going to make an appearance, Edge. No schmoozing will be required of you tonight, you'll be happy to know...whoa!"

"Hold onto my arm. Those shoes are all wrong for walking on ice."

"I don't want to shuffle around like an old woman. This ice is taking all the funk out of my walk."

"Yes. Without ice you're a veritable George Clinton."

"Oh yes, I remember this!"

(Merciful heavens...)

There you are, larger than life and in full color, on a poster advertising the exhibition. You sit in darkness, your head tilted back and to the left, your torso naked except for an ornate diamond necklace that two ambiguous hands are fastening around your neck. You have moved your hair to one side to assist the hands, which are pulling the necklace taut against your neck. Your expression is one of rapturous submission. The jagged diamonds stab your skin.

 

7: Explorer.

(Human beings engage in a quaint custom you might want to investigate soon. It's called breathing.)

Scentless, brutal, and exhilarating air, colder than those glacial diamonds, floods my body, which struggles to warm it to a usable temperature. You grin at me shamelessly, the frigid air aiding you in the smoking of a pretend cigarette, blowing post-coital steam right into my face.

"Diamonds are a boy's best friend, Edge."

"I thought you said I was your best friend."

"You're right. Correction. Diamonds are a distant second."

"That's more like it. Let's get you in there. Does this place specialize in photography?"

"Ameringer Howard deals in blue-chip artists like Hockney, Motherwell, Frankenthaler, and Stella, so this show for Anton is highly unusual. I think he knows someone who knows someone. In the art world, it's all about who you know."

We step through two sets of doors and into the vacant entry room, where we are engulfed in a tropical air mass. If it were to collide with the conditions outside, a string of supercell thunderstorms would undoubtedly erupt. Reacting to the unexpected warmth, our noses and eyes begin to water. Your cheeks are the color of peonies in May. I hand you a tissue.

"Thanks. It's like having a religious epiphany, all this sudden crying."

"This entrance is phenomenal... Hey, are you ready?"

"Ehm...no."

"Why not?"

"Edge...I've got to say, I'm scared."

"Oh. What's the matter?"

"It's just...I am different now, this...persona...I've created for myself...I'm still getting used to it. People react to me strangely sometimes. It's unnerving to become this whole new character, or whatever it is, in public. And it's harder to do than it looks."

"Is it really so different from simply being yourself?"

"It's different enough to give me stage fright every once in a while."

"You're pulling it off amazingly well. It's fun to watch you play with everyone's expectations. People are starting to see you have a sense of humor."

"You don't think I'm being foolish?"

"Bono, I think this reinvention of yourself is probably the most courageous thing you've ever done."

"You do?"

"You know I do. Now go in there and amaze them."

"Thanks, Mum."

"Glad we had this talk, son."

(You're so kind to me, Reg. Follow me into the gallery...wait. What is that song they're playing?)

"Edge! _Superfreak_!"

Does that answer your question? Flashbulbs and applause greet you as you execute an elaborate curtsey and beam at your adoring public. "Where is my Champagne?" you demand as I perform my standard gentle half-wave.

Anton Corbijn ambles over to welcome us with his trademark Dutch accent, startlingly tall as always, but otherwise rather nondescript in this crowd. His ears continue to stick out in an entertaining fashion. "So glad you could come, Bono, and Edge--what a pleasant surprise!"

"Very impressive space, Anton."

"Please, look around. I think you'll be amused by the things I've done with Bono."

"Where is my food?"

You are immediately swept away by the very people you were so worried about earlier, and within ten seconds they are roaring with laughter. Anton's audience is decidedly younger than those of most artists, imparting an air of hipness and glamour to the exhibition. Beautiful people, intellectuals, celebrities, and the cultural elite talk, drink, and smoke, only occasionally bothering to glance at the photography. Apparently tonight's musical selections will include a mix of old-school funk and earnest singer-songwriters from the Seventies. It's been a while since I've listened to _The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald_.

The high walls have been painted two shades. Is it by design that they perfectly match your skin and your lips?

(Astute observation.)

Nearly half of the exhibition is devoted to you. Elsewhere on the gallery walls are oversized photos of Michael Stipe, David Bowie, Depeche Mode, Miles Davis, Naomi Campbell and many others. All exemplify Anton's marvelously gritty yet sensitive style, showcasing an impressive scale of grays and deep, velvety blacks. His faces are topographical maps, feasts of texture. I don't really notice any of them. One wall marks the evolution of you and us, but mostly you, from the age of innocence to experience, photographs I've encountered so many times that I can't say I've ever considered them to be...art. But in this gallery context I can appreciate Anton's gift for composition, for capturing a candid moment, a telling glance.

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

That's you, holding court in the center of the gallery, Jupiter orbited by his sixteen moons. You laugh and raise your glass as your eyes meet mine. You are in your element. I move to the rear of the gallery, where nine color photographs of you are hiding. I've never seen them before, with the exception of that...

(Mmm.)

...poster outside. When prehistoric artists created paintings on the walls and ceilings of caves, they often hid the most powerful and compelling images in areas that were nearly inaccessible.

(Gorgeousness...)

I can see why Anton chose to put these photographs all the way back here. "Everything you know is wrong!" I hear you announce. Two women hang off your body, one of them holding a glass to your eager lips. Clearly, you're enjoying yourself. On with the show...

1976 Gibson Explorer: one of my first guitars and possibly my favorite. It was the only guitar I used during the recording of _Boy_ , capable of producing a vibrant, chiming effect. The Explorer is a cousin of the Flying V guitar, but with a unique shape that is more of a closed X, a twisted bow tie, an asymmetrical dress. It is upside down, cradled in your arms. You are dancing with it, singing to it, bothering the volume controls with one hand, stroking the neck with the other as it sways between your legs. The fact that you are wearing black only makes the natural finish of my guitar seem completely naked and defenseless.

(How did I manage to steal your naked guitar, Reg?)

I'm sure I don't know. Moving on...a portrait, your head looking slightly to the left. You are wearing a Catwoman mask, black, the kind with pointed ears that fits over the head, outlining the eyes. Your hair spills out from beneath the mask. Where did you find this, at an adult video store? You are smoking, and your eyes are twinkling and sinister, cerulean blue, daring any viewer to make some comment about the Catwoman mask.

(Show me more.)

You stand behind a red lace curtain, shirtless, right arm thrown over your head, fingers fondling the left side of your face. Your eyes are closed; your lips are parted.

(That's my hand, but the pose is so unusual that...)

...it looks as if it could be another man's hand.

(Oh, Reg. Next!)

It's a close-up of your face. You're kissing the lips of a life-sized marble sculpture...an angel? You wear scarlet lipstick, and there are lip-prints on his neck and cheek. It's as if your kiss could bring him to life, and you're checking for signs, gazing into his blank, white eyes.

"Hey Edge, did you get any of these things?"

"What's that, B.?"

"I didn't think this kind of culinary savagery was possible but...taste this. Vaseline sandwich, am I wrong?"

"Wow. It's just that terrible."

"Enjoying the show?"

"Uhh, very interesting, Bono."

"Oh, this one is a favorite of mine."

"Is that an angel?"

"No, it's by Bernini--Baroque artist, Rome, ring any bells?--and it's actually a sculpture of David, ...Dave."

"I see."

"Christy! Gotta go, Edge."

(Back to business. Right Dave?)

Red shirt, singing into the handle of...

(What?)

You're holding it like a microphone, and the rest of it...

(Reg, it's called a 'whip'.)

All right. The rest of the whip snakes around your torso and arms, ending at your neck, where you hold it between your left thumb and index finger. And again, you're singing. You've got that ecstatic, distant look in your eyes. I'd recognize that expression anywhere.

(How does that photograph make you feel?)

I don't know how much more of this I can take.

(Don't worry; the next one's going to be painless. You've already seen it.)

That doesn't make it any easier.

(A kiss on the hand can be quite continental, Reg.)

I can't take it in all at once. I might be able to concentrate on one or two diamonds, or the lower left corner, but not the entire picture. It's like watching a sad movie and trying not to cry, so you focus on a plant, or a box, or some background object.

(You can run, but you can't hide.)

Dear god, you're beautiful.

(It's part of a series.)

Oh no.

(Want me to describe it? I am in the same dark room, crawling towards the viewer, very When Doves Cry. Most of my body is obscured by shadows, but my face, arms, and chest--you like my chest, don't you?--are in full view. No necklace. Two clothed bodies, male and female, stand on either side of me, their backs to the viewer. My body is angled toward the female, but my eyes are on the male. Gee Reg, this photo has a vague subtext I just can't understand...)

This is torture.

(Now I sit before a mirror, some kind of vanity. The ambiguous hands are back, buried in my hair. They are positioning my head, forcing me to look at myself, at the diamonds, at the tiny marks on my neck. Black kohl lines my eyes, blazing with anger and lust. Oh you poor dear...)

Merely standing in front of that one is an implication of...something. Keep moving.

(It's okay, Reg. The wicked series is over. Last photo. How unusual--it's a pairing of green and violet. I am well lit, wearing a green shirt, and my face is leaning against the same mirror as before. I'm kissing myself, and my right fingertips rest against the mirror as well. I'm holding my own hand. On each finger is an emerald ring, and each bitten fingernail has been painted violet. On the vanity is a vase filled with dying irises.)

Your breath fogs the mirror slightly, and your fingers have left smudges. It looks as if you've pulled your fingers down its surface.

(One more thing...look what's reflected in the background. It's blurred, I know.)

That's me on the television, right next to your hand.

(And now?)

Your voice is in my ear...

"You've seen what I've wanted you to see, Edge. Let's get out of here now, love."


	3. Tiara/Dessert/Scissors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who are re-reading Close, and to those of you who are seeing it for the first time, I hope you're enjoying it. 
> 
> This is part 3 of 4. It was a squirm-fest for me when I wrote it, and I was pleased to discover it still has the power to make me blush. I had to go downstairs and get a cold drink a few minutes ago, as a matter of fact.

8: Tiara.

Love...?

I turn to face you, but you are already weaving through an obstacle course of admirers, heading for the entrance. I follow, receiving sporadic glances of recognition; these days it's a ten to one ratio. Anton thanks me again for viewing his work, adding, "Leaving so soon?"

"I'm afraid so..."

"What did you think?"

"He's never looked more beautiful."

"I thought you'd appreciate those."

(Hey Reg, I called you "love.")

I locate you in the entrance, smiling. Glowing.

"We really must discuss...oh wait. I'm sorry, Edge; I need to go back inside. Five seconds."

You live in an alternate universe where five seconds equal at least ten minutes, so I find a place to sit. Nearby are complimentary brochures emblazoned with your image; I take a few.

(Whacking material for the next couple of months, eh Reg?)

Now that's disgusting.

(Come on. We've been friends for about four months now. I know all about you. I was there when it started. You were watching me write.)

We were waiting for our flight, which had been delayed. Chaos surrounded you: disgruntled tourists, screaming children, repetitive intercom messages, bad food, and a surplus of luggage strewn around the seats. A magazine lay on your lap, opened to an advertisement that consisted of several small words floating in a background of white. You were using the white space to compose lyrics, observations, jokes...I'm not sure, but the beatific expression on your face was one I'll never forget. You were lost in your words, grinning at the ceiling every once in a while, then scribbling furiously. Were gems falling out of the sky and onto your magazine? I watched you pause, reread your work, and laugh out loud. You seemed to exist inside a transparent vessel of pure light, gleefully oblivious to the bedlam that surrounded you. "He is not one of us," I thought to myself. That's when you began sneezing, and you instinctively reached out to me for the tissue you knew was on the way.

(I said, "Neither are you, Reg." The beginning of a beautiful friendship.)

"You said you had an extra hat for me, right?"

"Oh. Sure B. Here you go."

"Put it on me."

(Beats the hell out of me.)

"Why...?"

"Just humor me."

It's a black knit cap, impossible to wear incorrectly, but I stand up, stretch it, and pull it onto your head, your hair tickling the palms of my hands. You pat the top of my own cap, enjoying your juvenile power trip or whatever it was.

"Let's eat."

"Right now? Eat what, exactly?"

"Edge, I will eat anything humans can consume, whatever we see on the way back to the Plaza."

Bombarded by the frigid night air, you cling to my arm on the icy sidewalk as I scan the area for anything humans can consume. "All I can see is that pizza-by-the-slice place over there. You could order room service, you know."

"But I want something now. This will be fine. Damn, it's cold."

"Look, I'll run in and get something for us. I can see a lot of people in there and you are too conspicuous tonight."

"Even in my little cap?"

"Even in your little cap."

"Thanks Reg, and I would like to remind you that I am cold."

"I'll try to remember that. Do not get lost."

(I don't know how to behave around you all of a sudden. Flirtatious, bossy, needy...?)

Let's not forget this one: tipsy. I point to the first thing I see at the pizza place, request two, and watch you window shop across the street, cigarette in one hand, free arm wrapped around your ribcage. Yours is a world of impractical strappy sandals, antique jade figurines, Valentine's Day lingerie, and German Expressionism. You deserve and understand all of it. I am the man buying you a slice of pizza.

(I've wanted you to see those photos.)

You see me crossing the street and adopt the pose of a smoking Miss America, arms wide open then hands clasping, bowing slightly, mouthing the words, "Thank you--thank you so much!" You straighten your pretend sash and stretchy black tiara, wiping away an imaginary tear as I present you with sustenance.

"Please please please--it smells so fattening. Oh Edge, this is divine. Thank y...hey!"

"This will be the biggest challenge you've ever faced, Bono. Can you walk, talk, eat, and smoke while navigating this patchy ice? America waits and wonders."

"As you can see, America, I have this arresting guitarist with me, a man who has been nothing if not supportive of my every endeavor, a man who is...who is the wind beneath my wings! Did I ever tell you you're my hero, the Edge?"

"Eat your food before it gets cold, B."

"It's a deal. But I want you to tell me what you thought of those new photographs."

"I'd like to know how you managed to appropriate my guitar without me noticing."

"I created a diversion. That is all I will say at this time."

"Hmm. Were all of those ideas Anton's?"

"No, they were mine. You really should have been there; we could have used you. Some of those photos would have been much more meaningful..."

"I'm about as photogenic as Java Man."

"Java Man indeed. Must I tell you again how handsome I think you are?"

"No...oh. Look at the sky. Light pollution is such a problem here. I think I see four stars."

"The rest of them are still there, watching over your dear head, Reg. Nice attempt to change the subject, by the way. Which photo was your favorite?"

"I wish I wouldn't have seen that poster first. It made everything else a bit...anticlimactic."

"I know, I know."

"But all of those images were unforgettable."

" _Like a song of love that clings to me / how the thought of you does things to me..._ "

(Did I say months? Because I meant to say whacking material for years.)

"God, I love this hotel. You know what I almost did, Edge?"

"What?"

"I almost booked the Vanderbilt Suite. Heads of state stay there. You get the entire top floor, roof access, your own chef in your own kitchen, a two thousand bottle wine cellar, servants, Rolls Royce with driver..."

"Wow."

"Fifteen thousand dollars a night. Can you believe that? But then I thought, no, I don't want Reg to get lost in all those rooms. So I booked a corner suite for three thousand dollars."

"What can I say, Bono. I'm a cheap date."

"And I'm such a class act, revealing all the financial details, aren't I? I'll go check us in. Aren't these chandeliers fantastic?"

They certainly are. The lobby is spacious and magnificent. The working class Irishman inside me wants to locate the one or two elements that reveal pretense...there are none. It is patently beautiful, that's all. Walls the color of the summer sun, elegant moldings, soaring vaulted ceilings, gleaming brass and marble surfaces, all immersed in the scent of hyacinths and old money.

(Wait. There's a working class Irishman in here with me? Well, why don't you introduce us?)

"All our things are in the suite waiting for us. I can't wait to see it. Let's go."

"The elevator's over here. Hey B. Do you know anything about Howard Carter?"

"Was he an explorer or something?"

"He was the Egyptologist who discovered King Tut's tomb."

"OK. What does that have to do with...?"

"It's just a thought. This man had been searching for years to find the last undiscovered tomb of a relatively minor pharaoh, and his funding was about to run out when his workers found a staircase leading under the sand."

"Yes. This is a good story. At the foot of the stairs was a sealed entrance, and then..."

"A passageway filled with rubble, and then another door."

"Like our door to Suite 317, Reg. Here we are."

"Do you have a match?"

"How about my lighter?"

"Good. Carter made a small hole in the door and inserted a candle. The hot air escaping from the chamber caused the candle to flicker. He peered inside and was speechless for a moment. His crew asked him, 'Can you see anything?' Open the door just a bit, B."

(I'm under your spell.)

"Can you see anything, Edge?"

"'Yes, wonderful things...and everywhere the glint of gold.' Let's go in."

"Ha. King Tut wishes his tomb were this dazzling...my God."

"Incredible, Bono."

"I know something else about Egyptians: they wore kohl to protect their eyes from the glare of the sun...like primitive sunglasses."

"Really?"

(You knew that, Reg. You're letting me have a turn at playing the professor. Awfully sweet of you.)

"I liked that photo with your eyes outlined in black. And you pulled it off without looking even remotely Egyptian."

"Good, but it's pretty much impossible for me to look Egyptian. Anton suggested that I wear my sunglasses instead, but that photo didn't have the same impact as the one you saw."

Your eyes behind sunglasses are like twin lapis lazuli scarabs, sacred and magical, tucked away in black velvet boxes...

"You know Edge, I think I'm becoming dependent upon my sunglasses. I bet I'll be wearing them ten years from now. After you start wearing them, your eyes crave the protection."

"They're also good to hide behind."

"Not really. I'm more recognizable when I wear them now."

"I meant that people don't know what you're thinking when you wear them."

"Except for you, Edge. You know me all too well."

(...love.)

 

9: Dessert.

You locate the telephone and immediately set into motion a series of events that will once again allow you to obtain exactly what you want.

"...Yes, what is your most ridiculous dessert?...Good; I want you to send up enough for two--no--three people...and we need plenty of coffee...317...What is your name, darling?...Heidi, I want you to appreciate how potentially explosive this situation could become if we don't receive our dessert and coffee promptly. We are absolutely famished, you see...Yes, I am from Ireland...Why, thank you sweetheart...Now off you go."

"What are they sending us?"

"Something called 'croquembouche', and no, I have no idea what that entails."

You remove your (actually my) hat and shake your head a bit. Exasperatingly and as usual, your head refuses to succumb to the regrettable phenomenon that is hat hair. You are not one of us.

(All of this gracious, glistening luxury is undeniably wasted on the likes of you, Reg, but not on me! I command you to walk around so I can see it. How can someplace so extravagant seem so welcoming and cozy? There are antique end tables and an imposing desk. I spy a glorious little sitting area inside a turret with a curved window, overlooking the park! What splendid curtains, and look at this: a loveseat, Reg. How delightful. All of this in such a divine color scheme...cream, gold, and blue...it reminds me of a painting. Reg, what artist used these colors? You know, quiet little interiors with open windows?)

You're asking me?

(No. That's your job. You ask me.)

"Bono, what painter used colors like these? He painted interiors..."

"You must be thinking of Vermeer. That's very incisive. Nice to see you taking an interest in art."

Happy?

(I am most satisfied.)

You stand directly beneath a chandelier, your head thrown back, gazing up into the sparkling, prismatic crystals, which cause miniature rainbows to cover your body.

"Look at all these rainbows--I am a pot of gold! I am Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz_!"

"That's strange. I was thinking about _The Wizard of Oz_ this morning. What a long time ago that seems."

"So if I'm Dorothy, you must be the Scarecrow. Adam is the Tin Man, and Larry is the Lion."

"Paul could be the Wizard."

(I'm sorry Reg. I know you are in love and everything, but this conversation is too gay for even me. Ahh, room service is here.)

"Well that was fast... Hi. Wow. Thanks very much, please take this. Good night."

What in the world...

"Oh my God, look at this. We are bound for hell, Edge. Hey, that could be the name of my all-girl New York punk band: Bound 4 Hell. With the number four!"

"The Paul Hewson Experience is better. Uh, what would you say this is, B?"

"It's a mountain--a pyramid!--of baby cream puffs? I think? All stuck together with some kind of caramel. And did you notice the little shamrocks here and there? That must be Heidi's doing. How precious. Come on; let's eat it. In the turret!"

We arrange the furniture to better facilitate the consumption of this massive creation.

"So. Exactly how does one go about eating something like this?"

"With one's bare hands, of course. Tear off the capstone--the cap-puff. Mmm, look how messy that caramel is... No. That one is going into my mouth, not yours, as I did all the work in getting it here. Feed me, Edge."

(Sometimes I impress even myself.)

I stand and move next to you, placing the golden morsel between your lips. You raise an eyebrow and proceed to suck the remaining caramel off my finger and thumb.

"Delicious."

The trees of Central Park sparkle, their limbs covered with a brittle glazing of ice, reflecting the multicolored lights of Fifth Avenue. Diamonds, crystals, ice...and twinkling blue eyes...you smirk and pour coffee for each of us.

"You're right, B. This is something else."

(Shh, Reg. Can't you see that I'm staring at you? Enjoy the silence.)

But it's not silent. There's music, a melody developing inside my brain, accompanying your face, your words scrawled upon a napkin. Stay and the night would be enough. That sounds like a chorus, with a variety of vowels for you to wrap your voice around.

"You want your guitar, don't you?"

"How did you know?"

"It's obvious. Your fingers have been moving in unmistakable patterns, and your eyes are staring out into the middle distance, shifting back and forth, as if you are having a conversation within yourself."

"You're absolutely right, B."

"The creative process is so mysterious and..."

"Better than adventure."

"We're fortunate to know what it feels like to create something from nothing, to wrestle with ideas, to experience that ecstasy when the music finally...comes."

You know me so well.

(I love you.)

"You said you've been wanting me to see those photographs."

"I have."

(That's all I'm going to say. I don't need to say anything else.)

You're staring at me again.

(Stare back. Make it a contest. If you win, you will establish dominance, you know.)

Oh, the things I'd love to do to you.

(Careful--I've just proven that I can read your mind, Reg. But anyway, what kind of things?)

I would take you in my mouth and make you sing incoherently. I'd explore every inch of your body and...all I want is to give you pleasure.

(Yes.)

But this is wrong...so wrong...

(Guilt is not of God.)

The love I feel...

(God put me in your life for a reason.)

Your expression has softened a bit, changing from naughty to wistful.

(And now?)

You seem to have made peace with yourself. Your smile returns, and you are still staring, appraising me, concluding with...a wink.

"I'll be back in a minute, Edge. There are two bedrooms; I didn't want to be presumptuous. I have dibs on the one overlooking the park."

"It's your three thousand dollars, B."

"Worth every cent."

 

10: Scissors.

I retreat to a bedroom fit for royalty, crowned by a bed so decadent and so luxuriant I can't quite bring myself to look at it.

(Well, at least I'm good at this. Polished mahogany posts, velvet coverings, goose down pillows, and well, well, well. Egyptian cotton sheets. You're fortunate to have me here pointing out all of this for you.)

I unzip my bag and locate the small set of supplies I always carry when I travel, little tools a person needs from time to time.

(You need scissors, Reg?)

Yes.

(Why?)

I just do.

"Excuse me Edge, do you have any...? Uhh, what are you doing?"

Damn. Ahh, to hell with it.

(Could you be more lovable, Reg? You're cutting out the diamond photo from the brochure!)

"I wanted to save this."

"Oh my God--to put in your wallet! Here..."

Giddy as a child, you reach into my back pocket and steal my wallet.

"No photos? Well, now you have one. Aww, it's so cute that you have little tools. Scissors. Hey."

You grin at me impishly, clutching my case.

"I have an idea. Could you cut this? A little?"

"What do you mean?"

"It keeps getting in my eyes. Come on. You're the one with the hands."

(Just follow me, Reg. I have a really good feeling about this.)

Jesus Christ.

"Could this bathroom be more sumptuous? I can see the ice skating rink and the pond down there. Elevated hot tub, walk-in closet, beautiful furniture, ubiquitous chandelier..."

"I would have preferred a solid gold light switch."

"I'm certain they have those in the Vanderbilt Suite. We'll do it next time, Edge; I give you my word."

You sit in a chair, gesturing and talking to me via your reflection in the mirror above the sink. I stand behind you.

"Now see? Just a bit shorter over my eyes, and it will be perfect."

You could do this yourself. You could wait.

(But I want you to cut my hair, love.)

You are certifiable, you know.

(Certifiable like a fox!)

You. All right, fine.

You rummage through my bag and retrieve a comb, which you place in my hand as your reflection studies mine. Your fingers fondle the same inky strand I pushed out of your sleeping eyes on the plane.

"Tell me why, Edge."

Once again my body takes over, and I watch in trepidation and wonder as my hands run the comb through your hair.

"It was in your eye."

And it is pliant, slightly wavy, and oddly playful, seemingly with a mind of its own; the ends caressing and delighting my hands.

"It's been doing that every day of my life since we first met. But today you touched it."

"Bono. I just wanted to, okay?"

"Okay, Edge."

Let's all calm down now. This is not a big deal. Men do this all the time and nobody even blinks. It's perfectly normal, nothing unusual about it.

(Ahh, it only seems neutral and dispassionate, but really, Reg, you know that this is not the case. Something so sensual, so intimate, and so primal can't be a mere mechanical exercise. You are combing my hair, and it's hypnotically soothing for both of us, bonding us together. And we are each feeling an undercurrent of lust, but neither one of us is overtly acknowledging it, so it continues to escalate. That's what makes it so delectable...Oh, am I repeating myself?)

Yes.

(You've wanted to do this for a long time. Look at the way it curves around my face and through your fingers.)

"Mmm. I like that, Edge."

(I'm giving you every indication. Good, yes, your hands are on my shoulders, attempting to reposition my body--this is a step in the right direction. Breathe.)

"OK, now turn around so I can reach you."

"Just cut here, and here. This much."

I take a towel from the nearby rack and drape it around your shoulders and neck, feeling the warmth of your body radiate through it almost immediately. Since you are seated and I am standing, I must bend slightly to reach you. I select a small section and smooth it between my thumb and index finger, the same ones you sucked earlier...it seems a shame to cut something so beautiful.

(My eyes look up at your hands as the scissors slowly slice through my hair, a mere half-inch from the ends. I exhale audibly. Or is that a sigh?)

Unsure about what to do with the cut piece, I find myself staring at it, and then back into your serene eyes. I place it on the sink counter, for some reason. A hush falls over the two of us; we breathe, and the precise, silvery sound of the blades opening and closing dominates the dreamlike atmosphere of the room.

Scissors: two legs in metallic pants, crossing, uncrossing. I touch your warm, bristly jaw, gently coaxing your head to the side. You seem to lean into my hand, and I can feel your breath as you exhale on my inner wrist. My careful nature takes over and I meticulously finish the job. You slowly turn to survey my work, beaming in the mirror.

"Perfection."

I tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear and inadvertently touch your neck; a visible shiver flies through your torso. Your hand covers mine, still at your throat. You begin to whisper.

"Do you know what Vasari said about the Mona Lisa's neck? 'To look closely at her throat you might imagine the pulse was beating.'"

I realize I would sacrifice everything for your pulse.

(Oh Reg, that's so...)

You take another, smaller towel, place it in the sink, and wink as hot water flows from the faucet.

"What are you doing, B?"

"You're going to shave my face now, love."


	4. Humid/Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh, this one. This is the one, isn't it? It is.
> 
> "Without you there is no me" is a line from a beautiful Prince song called "Adore." They would be familiar with it. 
> 
> This story has two sequels, in case you didn't know. I started writing the next story immediately after I finished this one. (I was a woman possessed that summer.) It will explain what happens immediately after Close ends, so if you're curious, yeah, there's a lot more.
> 
> I'd like to say hi to the much-younger me who wrote this, heartbroken and lonely and just kind of *done* with men for about a year, except for these two, of course. It's going to get better. You have years to go and so much work and even more heartbreak ahead of you, but one day you will find true love, and you'll leave that job that's killing you and pursue your dream. And this band, this fucking band will be with you every step of the way.
> 
> Thanks again for reading this. <3

11: Humid.

 

(I'm chock full of entertaining ideas tonight, aren't I? You will find resistance is futile, my dear...what's this? Do I believe what I am seeing? You're tracing random patterns on my back for no reason whatsoever; gold star for you, Reg. Baby steps.)

"You think so?"

"I forgot to pack a razor, Edge."

"Is that a fact..."

Heaven forbid you might be seen sporting stubble on your face. No, that's totally unprecedented. That would never do.

(It's called 'personal style.' And Reg, you've just upped the ante. You're stroking the hair near my neck now. Tell me why.)

Because I can.

"What, Edge, does the back need work, too?"

"No."

(That captured my attention. A one word sentence like that merits direct eye contact with a full-body turnaround, as opposed to nonverbal mirror communication.)

Soon your body will be covered with mirrors, and I'll be able to see myself inside you.

(Sexy. Now why didn't I say something along those lines? I'm starting to think that you don't need my help anymore.)

I like having you here. But you're somewhat distracting at this moment.

(Message received and understood, Reg. I'll try to be quiet. You know where to find me.)

"Turn that around, Bono."

You stand and re-position the chair as I fold a towel into a makeshift pillow. I place it on the counter above the chair. You sit with your back to the mirror, artfully slumping. Your head alights on the towel, revealing a massive stretch of neck that seems to go on for a week. Your eyes question mine, and for an instant I wonder if you were in fact serious about your request. If that is the case, Bono, it's too late to back out now.

"You asked for it."

I unearth some shave gel and a straight razor...

(Emphasis on 'straight!' Sorry, I couldn't resist chiming in. I'll be good now.)

"Ha! That's great. It has your name on it!"

"Yeah, they sent me a whole case of it, trying to get me to endorse their product...Edge gel. And get this. They wanted to use _Even Better Than the Real Thing_ in the advertisement."

"Blasphemy. Although I suppose this kind of thing is to be expected now. At least you got some free stuff."

"It's actually a good product."

"Pretty hilarious, Edge. And look, it contains triethanolamine, my favorite!"

I reach down to the second button of your shirt. Your head rises from its pillow, and you watch me unfasten it and the third button. My hands move to your neck, to the collar of your shirt, and gently fold it over. We don't want to mess up that pretty purple shirt of yours.

(May I just say...)

Your neck and head perform a series of graceful but entirely unnecessary, kittenish movements as I do this. My hands are relatively stationary, but your writhing causes them to come in contact with a vast expanse of skin extending from the back of your neck to your clavicle. I inhale and am instantly transported to a thousand stages in a thousand cities, to a thousand fleeting, congratulatory embraces, by way of a scent that I will forever associate with music, with release, with gratification. I wring out the waiting, steaming towel and cover your neck and the lower half of your face with it. I review the events of the last sixty seconds in utter disbelief. I look at your...

(chest.)

You are so alive, feral yet compliant. A tiny rivulet ventures down from the wet towel to the center of your chest, leaving a path of glistening, flattened hair in its wake. I remedy the situation by tracing a finger over the path, from chest to neck, and this time your body is more relaxed, withdrawing only slightly and then rising to meet my hand as you inhale. You want my touch. I repeat the gesture on a completely fictitious second trail.

I sit beside you on the floor and idly occupy myself with the razor, alternately exposing the blade and closing it up again. Your right hand blindly discovers and colonizes my shoulder. Two fingers are set out on a reconnaissance mission in search of the most sensitive regions of my neck. I turn my face to study your compact hand and am sorely tempted to kiss it, your knuckles a mere inch from my lips. Instead, I graze the back of your hand and the tops of your fingers with my chin. You grasp my shoulder tightly in response.

"You've corrupted something new, Bono."

"What are you talking about?"

Your voice is abstracted and muted by the towel. Your hand, however, is not.

"You have a strange way of hoarding everyday objects and actions. You'll make a comment or do something that will cause my mind to forever link that item or experience with you."

"Like what?"

"Today alone you've taken the letter R, fortune cookies, diamonds, scissors, caramel...I could go on. You've accumulated countless objects over the years--soon I won't be able to see anything at all without thinking about you, B. And now this activity..."

I stand and remove the towel, revealing your humid, smiling, blushing countenance. You bite your lower lip in a way that is utterly disarming. I am immobilized. Any bravado I may have displayed while your face was concealed has evaporated. I drop the razor, and it hits the floor with a clatter that startles us both.

"Reg, there's nothing wrong with this. Men do it all the time."

You smile innocuously. There's nothing wrong with this. Then why am I so...

(...turned on? I think we both know why, but truly, this is not the time to be asking all kinds of questions, Reg.)

 

 

12: Close.

 

"Edge, I'm about to have an important thought here. OK. Blood is red."

"Truly, yours is one of the great minds of the twentieth century."

"Very funny; let me finish. I don't want to corrupt the idea of blood for you, but what if blood were some other color, like yellow--would red continue to carry the same emotional connotations it does now? You know, would it still signify passion, fury, and love?"

"Bono, I'm not going to cut you."

"You've got to admit it's a provocative idea."

"It appears you'll have much to think about as I do this."

I dispense a small quantity of greenish gel into the palm of my hand and grasp for the first time that it is in fact gel, not foam. To use it, I'm going to have to rub it into your skin; I will be required to handle your face more than I would with some other kind of product. Jesus.

You seize the gel container and hover it over your face, reading the information on the back label as I...I start. A war of contrasting sensations breaks out on the right side of your face. The cool gel seems to melt as it makes contact with your warm skin. I smell lavender and--maybe eucalyptus?--along with about fifty mystery chemicals, creating the scent to which I've never given much thought. Now it is intoxicating. It soon becomes white as I spread it over your prickly cheek and jaw, and I can feel the tiny bristles through the pleasantly slippery gel. I find that if I use the sections of my fingers below the calloused tips to smooth it over your face I can feel these contrasts much more vividly. The task is one I can complete in five casual, analysis-free seconds on my own face. But this is you. You discontinue your reading and study the chandelier.

"It's the perfect combination of fire and ice...every ceiling in this hotel looks like the bubbles in a champagne flute."

(I'm afraid to make eye contact with you. You must be doing something right.)

"Reg, I've been remiss in providing you with your recommended daily allowance of data. Listen to this. 'The average man spends three and a half minutes shaving every day. There are thirty thousand hairs on an average face.' They don't have any statistics regarding an outstanding face."

I continue spreading the gel around the rest of your face, and you pause to swallow as my hand reaches your neck. I feel your entire throat shift under my fingers. Steady hands...focus on the process.

(Process? Focusing? I order you to enjoy this.)

"'The ideal shaving angle is between twenty-eight and thirty-two degrees.' So Edge, if you want to do this flawlessly, let's call it an even thirty."

Pleased with your little presentation, you nod. Some gel has found its way onto your lips. I touch your mouth with my finger and watch your upper body twist slightly. I delicately trace the line between your lips from right to left as your breathing enchants my hand. I watch your lips expand into that deliberate smile as I do this, and my finger sinks into a deep corner. Without thinking, I glance at your eyes. They are closed, sheltered by the delicate covering of your eyelids, the only thing protecting me from...

(...utter devastation.)

All right. Begin.

"Be gentle with me."

"Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt."

"Whatever you say. You're the one wielding the sharp object."

You trust me with your face.

Just lean down and start. Think about...geometry. Sixty degrees, arc of eyelashes; seventy, one hundred-ten, eighty degrees, angles in your hairline...the seventy-five degree isosceles triangle of your nose in profile...actually it's more of a right triangle. Your skin is so taut, so resilient under my fingers...One hundred twenty degrees, angle of your jaw

(already established)

...I will not count them...twelve, right there under your eyes. Moving methodically, carefully drawing the blade down your cheek in short, downward, thirty degree strokes, I create a slow rhythm of delicate scraping noises only you and I can hear. I periodically wipe the blade on a towel, inspect my work, and continue down the right side of your face.

(Now do the other side. Step over my legs...you haven't even noticed my leather pants today. It's a crying shame.)

Don't worry; they have been noticed. Only you would wear leather pants on an intercontinental flight. This side is more awkward to reach. I may have to switch the razor to my other hand or something.

(Don't be silly, Reg. My face will not break. You can move it from side to side if you need to; you'll find I'm fully pose-able.)

"What are you smiling about?"

"The little voice inside my head said something mildly amusing."

"Oh, you have one too?"

"Stop moving, B."

"Just one thing, Edge...I want you to know you're doing marvelous work. This would be a good career for you to fall back on in case this music thing doesn't work out. And do take your time. We've got all night. That's all. I'm finished talking."

Angles. Darling ears.

(Touch them. You can. They're like little handles for you. It's all in the name of good shaving.)

That is inane even coming from you, B. A few trips sliding down from your dear cheekbone to your jaw...mere seconds are beginning to seem like hours. I run my fingers over your skin...

(...to be certain your work is indeed marvelous, worthy of my praise.)

Upper lip and chin...I try to find the right position, but how to...?

"This is awkward, B. I don't want to cut you. It would be much easier if you were not resting your head on the sink. It's really hard to reach this part of your face from my position here."

"Hmm. I see. Well, Edge..."

(Five sparkles.)

"...you could, you know, straddle me."

"Uhh..."

"Your right leg stays put, then your left leg swings over to the other side of my body; that way you could do it straight-on."

(I am a genius solving the fundamental problems of our time. Do it. You want to see me between your legs, admit it.)

I watch in dismay as my own left leg moves over you, seemingly of its own free will.

(Maybe I have special powers now. Maybe I can make you move, too!)

That is the least of my concerns. I loom over you, and our eyes meet again. You're gazing at me the way you look at...

(...let's call them 'women'. Beautiful women.)

I can only imagine what emotions my own eyes are betraying. Mercifully, you close yours. Back to your upper lip; shaving this area is indeed much easier from this perspective. Your breathing is shallow. Outlining your lips, now slightly parted, and down to your chin, determined and strong and...masculine. Composed of five planes.

(Geometry class is over, Reg.)

Each stroke of my razor reveals a bit more of your clean, handsome face. I can't stop running my fingers over your chin, your cheeks, your jaw. I am finished except for...

(...my neck. Wait, what's this?)

My God.

(I'm so proud of myself.)

"It's fine, Reg."

Your hands are on my hips, firmly pulling my body down.

"Bono..."

"You won't have to lean over so much. Sit, Reg."

A line has been crossed.

(Oh, we crossed that line hours ago. Don't think. Obey me.)

I am sitting on your lap, facing you, about to shave your neck. The warmth of your body is dizzying.

(Anywhere I sit becomes warm. And anyone who sits on me...)

...burns.

(Mmm.)

Your neck, so vulnerable and waiting...

(...is bringing you to your knees. To my lap.)

Finish the job. Composure. Beginning at your jaw, I clear a path down your neck, your superbly complex circuitry operating not even a millimeter beneath the surface of your skin. Another path follows, exposing your skin, tender, pink, and new.

Most of the time our interactions, so natural and easy, make me feel we were meant to exist solely as a unit. But every once in a while I realize with a start that you are indeed a separate human being. Now is one of those occasions.

(That is where you're wrong. I'm not separate now, not with you, especially not like this. We exist inside each other. Without you there is no me. Real or otherwise.)

I navigate the razor around and over your Adam's apple, located directly above your larynx, the source of your heavenly voice, your incalculable gift from God.

(Stop for a moment. Feel my pulse.)

Oh love.

(Swallowing.)

It is an action so elementary yet so...miraculous. I shave near the intersection of ear, jaw, and neck, then down and down again, and your pale throat is finally naked. I look out the window.

"It's snowing."

"Maybe it's not snow. Maybe the stars are falling from the sky."

(Check your work. Check every bit of my neck, and while you're at it, check my face again as well.)

Yes.

"Edge, that feels lovely."

Your chest rises; your chest falls. I set the razor on the sink and take the damp towel again, leisurely cleaning your skin. Your hands have never left my hips. Your face is flushed, your...

"Ahh, I'm sorry, Bono."

"Is something wrong?"

"There's a tiny scrape near your chin."

"Kiss it and make it better, Reg."

That seductive whisper...I can't resist you anymore or ever again. My body attempts to rise from your lap, my lips longing for your face, but your hands keep me still.

Instead you sit up straight, and I incline my head to kiss your little scrape, which isn't bleeding at all. I taste your smooth skin, somewhat metallic and with a trace of the gel, slightly bitter. I hear you murmur.

"My love."

"Does it feel better now?"

"No love, not yet."

Any comment from you?

(Speechless. No comment at this time.)

Back to your chin, I feel your face adjust into a smile as I give you another kiss, this one more ardent, my hand straying from your neck to your cheek, where I feel...a warm tear. My lips move to the tear, kiss it away, and I look into your luminous eyes, unafraid.

"It's like having a religious epiphany, all this sudden crying."

My hand buries itself in your hair. One of your hands leaves my belt, takes my other hand, and lifts it to your jaw.

"Touch this, the way you shaved my...oh Edge."

"How does it feel?"

"Mmm. Close."

"Close."

"Very close, love."

Your mouth, beneath mine, fervent and yielding, and so close.


End file.
